down with history, up with your head.

There she stood at the end of a corridor of oak, hemlock and fern.  Tears stained her cheeks or perhaps I imagined them, knowing they were sure to fall when she saw that I was already crying, saw me collapse, broken again.

All day long she'd tended to me as she does, had tended to so many others too, and I was certain she would bear the strain of not being able to nurse me all the way to a finish she knew I coveted, not because she put much stock in such endeavors but because she almost dutifully wanted for me what I wanted for me.  Which is why I cried.

How she weathered such days with a heart like hers, I couldn't fathom.  How she had survived a life so full of mistreatment, disappointment and loss, I couldn't even bear to consider.

That boundless empathy had to be a burden even though it comforted even rescued others when their bodies and spirits were spent.

I thought back to a C. S. Lewis quote discovered on a church bulletin of my youth:

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

How Lindsay had avoided the temptation to lock it up safe is infinitely beyond my comprehension, though I suspect there aren't chains enough to bind a heart that big and vulnerability was inescapable.

Blessed am I that it's the case.

She and I had been "we" for so long and through so much that it was nearly impossible for me to imagine life working any other way even though we had taken many (too damn many) years stumbling zigzaggeredly before we straightened our story. We'd mutually crushed as youngsters, spent time together again a few years later, but then wandered off in opposite directions for a decade and more.

Time and circumstance chart chaotic routes, navigating by stars that all too frequently go shooting, and by the time we intersected and merged, we were both bowed, humbled and privy to the humbling perspective provided by years of suffering.  We were wiser (which only meant that we better understood how little we knew of anything) but wounded, diminished and desperate for better days.

I couldn't begin to list all of the incredible times we've shared since then.  The adventures have been many but even the quiet, uneventful moments of domesticity have been better, far better, than the days that came before.

Unfortunately, on days like last Saturday when my body had failed me because I had failed it and falling short yet again of an attainable goal threatened despondency, it's all too easy to forget how wondrous life really is.  Some have suggested that running is a metaphor for life and I've heard the same said about various hobbies, activities or vocations.  I happen to believe that it's true, but getting lost in the metaphor, mistaking it for life itself, is vain and foolish.

Bad days define good days and good days, in turn, have an interesting way of making a good many bad days seem, well, far less bad.

And there, right there at the end of that passage through the forest, stood my very best of days, mindful of how little the finishing or not finishing of any footrace matters when weighed against the joys and sorrows of life beyond the metaphor.

Thank you, Lindsay, for all of our better days.

erithizon dorsatum: a day on the black forest trail

Hugs and kisses for the wife and kids saw me off and on my way north toward the village of Slate Run in the Pine Creek Gorge of northern Pennsylvania.  Home to a thriving hemlock sawmill in the late 1800's, Slate Run has long been forgotten by industry and is now most beloved by fly fishermen seeking native brook trout.  It's also well known by backpackers who come to travel the Black Forest Trail's rugged and remote 42.4 mile loop.

Consisting of one ascent and descent after another, the Black Forest Trail (BFT) normally takes backpackers 3-4 days to traverse and many hikers have had to take advantage of available cross trails to beat retreats when the terrain and the demands proved to be more than expected.  As someone who lives in Pennsylvania and sells backpacking equipment, it isn't the trail, despite its incredible beauty, on which I'd encourage newbies to attempt their first multi-day excursion.

That said, I was going to try and run it in one push as a training run for both the Laurel Highlands Ultra in June and, more distantly, my pacing gig for good friend Kelly Agnew at Leadville in August.  Everything I thought I'd need was packed into my Gregory Tempo 8 hydration pack.  This wouldn't be any "fastest known time" attempt and I fully intended to enjoy every second of my day outside of the confines of the office.  Rather randomly, I'd decided on taking a fairly pedestrian (from a running viewpoint) 12-15 hours to get all the way around.  If I could drag myself from sleep at the appointed 5:00 or 5:30 AM, that would surely get me back to my vehicle before the sun went down.  Hedging my bet, I'd carry a small headlamp to be safe.

But first I needed to sleep.  I pulled the car in behind another few vehicles parked just beyond the Slate Run trailhead, turned off the headlights and cut the engine.  It was just past eleven on Thursday evening. Ten minutes later, I was settled into my makeshift bedroom in the back of the Element and nodding off.  Just before passing out, I remembered to crack open a box of mothballs and slip them underneath the front of the car.

For those of you scratching your heads, mothballs are a pretty good way to ward off salt-seeking porcupines that prey upon vehicle undercarriages that have accumulated residue from the department of transportation's weather-fighting efforts during the winter months.  It might sound crazy, but it's true.  In case you're questioning my claims about the odd critter's cravings, here's a quote from the National Audubon Society's Field Guide to North American Mammals:

"Fond of salt, the Common Porcupine has a great appetite for wooden tool handles that have absorbed human perspiration through use." 

Some folks harbor fears about bears, mountain lions or half-crazed woodsmen, but my only concern was returning to the car on Friday evening to find cooling hoses or fuel lines gnawed through.  Mothballs on watch, I slept soundly.

I slept so soundly, in fact, that I had a tough time talking myself out of bed in the morning and was off to a later start than I'd planned.  I discovered that my Ambit was a bar short of being fully charged but decided against starting up the car for a full recharge as the day was already getting away from me.  I signed in at the trail register with a jovial "back before dark" and hit "start" at 6:22 AM.

Having decided on a counter-clockwise course that mirrored the direction taken by Chuck Dillon, the author of The Black Forest Trail: A Backpacker's Interpretive Guide, I was going to have to cross Slate Run right away which basically ensured that I'd have wet feet all day long.  DryMax Socks = no worries.

Just before wading in the water, however, I came upon a quartet of backpackers who'd banged out the loop in just 2.5 days but decided to spend one last night outdoors before heading back to civilization.  They seemed tired out but were in excellent spirits and had clearly had a wonderful trip.  I learned of a rattler encounter they'd had at one of the many rocky overlooks and swapped it's-a-small-world stories with Kathleen who turned out to be a trail runner herself.  It was a great way to start the day and a fine omen to go with the perfect weather.

There had been rain earlier in the week and water levels in all of the creeks seemed strong.  My initial water crossing was thigh-high and there were many places throughout the day where small opportunistic trickles of water snuck across the trail.  Despite the high streams and Spring runoff, however, the trail itself was in great shape.  With the exception of a few swampy spots here and there, the footing was ideal for the entire loop.

The day before, I'd made up my mind to not even check the time until well into the morning, as, once I've glanced at my wrist for the first time, I can get in the tiresome habit of checking it in what gets to seeming like 5 minute increments.  When that happens, I find myself wishing I'd never worn the watch in the first place.

I paused at nearly every available vista (which are frequent), stopped for 15 minutes to watch the least shy Pileated woodpecker I've ever seen go about his ham-ham-hammering and eventually ate a leisurely breakfast by an old forestry service cabin.  Finally I caved and was surprised to learn that I'd covered just over 13 miles before 10:00.  I hadn't seen another person since saying goodbye to the party at the trailhead. Without paying much attention, I was right on track for a daylight finish despite giving into just about every distraction the forest offered.

The temperatures were in the highest 40's/low 50's to start the day and perhaps climbed as high as the mid-to-high 70's later in the day.  Best of all, there was a merciful lack of humidity for a Pennsylvania May day.  What clouds were in the sky were few and almost cartoonishly non-threatening.

I'd checked the guidebook a time or two along the way and was pleased to find that my GPS was corresponding almost identically with the trail description.  The orange blazes were hard to miss and spaced evenly enough that I wasn't too concerned about a wrong turn, but it was still comforting to find that the guidebook was so on point.

Footbridge over Little Morris Run (mile 7.65)

As nicely as things were progressing, I had to remind myself that the most difficult sections of the trail would come later in the day.  The eastern side on which I'd started had begun with a 1000+ foot climb over the first 3 miles but except for a rocky descent between miles 6-8 and a fairly steep climb back up again over the mile that followed, much of the trail was smooth and rolling.  Once I got 25 miles into things, the downs would get steeper and so would the ups.  With no aid stations, drop bags or crew members to look forward to along the way, I needed to diligently monitor my condition and make sure that I had reserves in the tank.

By early afternoon, I'd taken a ton of photographs, enjoyed a second "meal" and was still feeling really strong.  I couldn't believe how many miles has passed without any discomfort or incident.  Water remained abundant and I had been able to refill and treat the water in my 2 liter hydration system and separate .75 liter Platypus bottle after having emptied them both while seemingly eating all day long.  My nutrition was good, I was well hydrated and I was past halfway.

All systems go.

An unsettling sound shook me from my gee-everything's-great midstride musings and I spun on my heels to see a rattler as thick as my forearm on the trail right where I'd run above it a second earlier.  Whether listless from what for the snake would still have been fairly cool temperatures or simply lacking any fear of my scrawny ass, the snake didn't show any intent of moving from its sun-dappled resting place and shook its rattle to tell me so.  I snapped a couple of photos, considered myself lucky and continued on my way with a bit more attention cast downwards than had been the case up to that point in the day.

After a long descent that crossed back and forth over Callahan Run followed by a steep climb up onto a rolling plateau, I was nearing the 50K mark of the run and though there was some initial fatigue, I still felt really positive and was holding to a 12-hour pace.  I came upon three weary backpackers at a sweeping vista looking south over Pine Creek.  We chatted for a bit and they attested that I was about to hit a long, steep downhill, the cause of their weariness as they were travelling in the opposite direction.

I was soon off again and ready to dig into the descent.  It began almost immediately, but after just a few switchbacks, I seemed to be moving across rather than down the ridge.  I was perplexed but assumed that the trail would again turn downhill before too long.  Strangely, the blazes continued to climb or at least hold the same position on the ridge for much longer than I would have expected.  There was no mistaking the orange blazes, however, so on I pushed.

Several minutes later I came upon an opening in the trees that looked identical to the overlook at which I'd conversed with the three backpackers.  If that was true, I was now headed in the wrong direction.  That didn't seem possible, so I kept going...until I heard voices that I recognized.  I slowed to a walk and continued just long enough to visually identify the bodies that belonged to those voices.

Angry with myself, I turned around and picked up my pace to try and make up the time and ground I'd just given away.  I soon discovered another backpacker nearing the top of the ridge and he assured me that the trail headed only downward from there and I soon saw where I'd made my mistake.  With head down the first time through, I had continued on past a switchback and, I'm guessing, stumbled through dumb-and-bad luck onto old blazes that preceded the existence of some of the current switchbacks.  Not only had I gotten off track, but I had also ascended the ridge in a steeper fashion than if I'd have been coming that direction in the first place.

Not cool.  And no one's fault but my own.

I was probably still chastising myself for my mistake when I made my next one.  There are a number of different colors of blazes in this section, as several trails overlap and share real estate. Having reached the bottom of the climb and the intersection with Naval Run, I blasted right by the spot where the BFT breaks away to the left and instead kept heading down the ridge.  One of these trails had red blazes and I somehow convinced myself that those red blazes were orange.  They weren't.

By the time I realized that they weren't, I had a good bit of backtracking to do.  So much, in fact, that I talked myself into believing that I must have been on the right course in the first place after having retraced my steps ALMOST far enough to actually be back on track.  Finally, after wasting the better part of an hour or more, I managed to get back to where I should have hung a left if I had been paying the proper attention.  The intersection was clearly marked and the blazes couldn't have been more evident.

The Ambit told me that I was 34.5 miles into my journey.  The guidebook, which had been spot on all day, said 30.5.  I started the long climb up out of Naval Run with a lot of giddy up gone.

It wasn't until about 2 miles into what turned out to be a 3 mile climb that I realized I'd made yet another mistake, and a big one, down in Naval Run.  I was now nearly out of water and I'd passed up a perfect opportunity to refill.  I had ample food but gels, chews and energy bars don't digest very well without liquids.  There had been water, water everywhere all day long but I wouldn't see another drinkable drop for 4 more miles and by then I'd be in an all too familiar a place, dehydrated and calorie-deficient.

When I did at last reach Little Slate Run, I refilled both water receptacles, dropped in Aquatabs and settled down on a log to wait the half hour for the water to be potable.  Sitting wasn't going to get me to the car any faster but asking much more of my body without some food and water seemed foolish.

Minutes passed.

I glanced over my shoulder at a rustling in the leaves and watched a porcupine finish its step down from a tree onto the floor of the forest.  Bemused, I grinned at its clumsy waddling...until I realized that it wasn't waddling all that slowly and was heading directly toward me.  I rose to my feet, moved several yards away and watched as the porcupine quickly filled the very space I'd just vacated.  It sniffed and scratched at the log before stepping off and making another step in my direction.  Realizing I didn't know nearly enough about porcupine behavior, I yelled something along the lines of "hey, hey, no!" and the creature halted immediately.  I have a suspicion that poor vision kept it from ever really seeing me in the first place, but the salt that I'd been excreting all day long and that by then clung to my dehydrated skin in white flakes had pied-pipered that quilled beast my way.

I was no wooden tool handle, but the next best thing.

Deciding not to linger any longer, I began the ascent up from Little Slate Run as the daylight began to fail.  I checked my GPS soon thereafter to find that I'd traveled more than 40 miles over the course of just over 13 hours.  Had I managed to avoid my earlier detours, I would have been right on schedule for a pre-sunset finish.  The battery's charge eventually died completely at 41.5 miles and left me in the dark in more ways than one.

It had stayed active long enough to confirm that enough time had passed for my collected water to be safe to drink.  I took several gulps, choked down half an energy bar and washed it down with a few more sips.  While the water may have been effectively treated, my stomach was already way out of whack and within 10 minutes it emptied itself out.

A seasoned puker, I let the spasms pass and then continued to slowly make my way along the trail.  After several minutes passed and aware of the fact that I needed to get something into my system, I sipped some more water.

Out it came.

The sun was down and the GPS was dead.  I'd chosen the headlamp I had packed on the merits of it being lightweight and compact and I found myself wishing that I had been smart enough to tote a few extra ounces for the brightness it would have afforded me.  On the bright side, I was pretty sure that I was on the final climb with just three miles of flat and downhill to the finish.  I continued to puke up whatever I put in my body, but I was still making forward progress.

The trail began to descend and my spirits lifted slightly.  Those two flipped positions soon after as the BFT began climbing again and I realized all too clearly that I was only NOW reaching Foster Hollow and the start of the final creek-straddling half-mile climb.  I threw up again and this time it was just spasms and discomfort.  There wasn't anything else.

I paused in mid-trail, bent over my trekking pole perch, for several minutes before beginning again to shuffle forward.  The footing in this section was wet and uneven and I was struggling to pinpoint blazes in the feeble beam of my headlamp.  I was flat out exhausted.  Frustrated and exhausted.  If I could just rest for a bit, I knew I could knock out the last climb and stagger the last 3 miles.

It was then that I remembered the emergency blanket that was a required item for participation in the TransRockies Run (http://transrockies-run.com/).  I'd carried that thing for every step of those 120 miles and had continued to throw it in my pack ever since even though there'd never been any call for its use.  With temperatures probably hovering somewhere in the 40's, I wasn't sure I needed it now either but it sounded wise.  I peeled open the packaging, chose a relatively flat spot just to one side of the trail, again sipped a bit of water and lay down for a quick (I hoped) nap.  I don't even remember giving it much of a second thought or offering up any counter-argument.  That was the new plan.  Period.

Within an hour or so (I think), I woke up puking.  Whether it was from one last spasming of my stomach or from a nightmare of rattlesnakes crawling in under the space blanket and porcupines licking the salt from my face, I couldn't say.  I got up on an elbow, then to my knees and finally onto two feet.  I folded the blanket, slipped it back into my pack, flicked on my headlamp and began moving.

Locating the blazes during that climb was a challenge but even on shaky legs and with poor lighting, a half mile is still only a half mile and eventually it was behind me.  From there, the trail was remarkably easy to follow and, as promised, flat to start and then almost entirely downhill.  I was surprised at how much my head had cleared from that little bit of sleep and I actually spent less time feeling poorly for myself than I did pondering the resolve of any backpacker who had to start her or his 42-mile trek hiking up the steep trail that I was descending.

It was during that descent that I finally began to notice discomfort at the point where my shoes rubbed against my feet just before the toes and at the top where the tongues came into contact with the lowest portion of my legs, but I wouldn't really understand the extent of that carnage until the next day.

Otherwise, I walked away unscathed.

Back at the car, I turned on my cellphone.  I'd used it to set the time on my Ambit and it read 12:36 AM.  My back-before-sunset trip had ballooned from a lackadaisical 12-hour venture to an 18+ hour bumblefest with 4-5 bonus miles.  A better, more focused, less daydreamy runner could have done it in 7 hours, maybe even faster.

My amateur status, never in question, was reconfirmed.

But I was still intact, still grinning and, judging from the purr of the engine as I turned the key in the ignition, still in possession of a vehicle untouched by marauding porcupines.

you just aren't very good at this, are you?

John Muir would've turned 175 years old yesterday IF physiology hadn't had its way, as it always does, and now long ago carted him from the planet and a civilization that was already careening further and further away from the beliefs he clung to so steadfastly.

He died in 1914 having barely caught a glimpse of what modernity and its technological breakthroughs could and would wreak and how broadly their impact would be felt by the natural world, but his words in many cases have hardly aged in the nearly 100 years since his passing.

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out going to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity...”

Amen to that, Mr. Muir, and by the early evening hours of Friday, April 20, this tired, nerve-shaken individual was "over" civilization and trying desperately to leave the world behind for a time.  Several hundred other minds and bodies were headed home to the mountains too, destined for either a 25 kilometer or 50 kilometer venture through the lovely deciduous forests of Clinton County, Sproul State Forest and Hyner View State Park.  Regardless of the distance covered, the individual journeys would be mercifully free of pavement, billboards and the endless stream of we-interrupt-this-broadcasts that had monopolized a soul-crushing week back in the "real" world.

The Hyner View Trail Challenge began back in 2007 as an as-demanding-as-they-come foot race/hike, boasting over 4,300 feet of gain (with just as much give-away in the quad-demolishing downhills) spread over 3 major climbs and 16 miles.  In 2012, an additional 25K loop was added for those folks who just felt there wasn't a high enough degree of difficulty, I suppose, on that original course.  Though the additional loop saves runners/hikers from having to retrace their steps and tackle those same 3 climbs twice around, it also adds two more significant uphill sections (another 3,200 feet of gain) and two punishing descents.

To say it more simply, it's brutally demanding at either distance and is softened only by the incredible beauty of the surroundings, the trails and the views provided at the top outs as well as, if you make it the whole way around the course, a rewarding finish line reached. 

Coming into the weekend, I couldn't have attested to the rewarding finish firsthand as my only prior attempt (back in 2011) ended prematurely when the Achilles issues I tried to ignore in the days leading up to Hyner were fully exposed and then amplified by all of that up and down.  My day ended 11 miles after the start and the only reward I received from the Pennsylvania DCNR-truck ride back to the finish was motivation to seek out a PT, Michael Beiler of Drevna Physical Therapy Associates, who helped put me back together and pass along advice and positivity that has stuck with me ever since.

Last year, I missed out on the inaugural 50K and a chance at redemption due to a too-good-to-pass-up canyoneering invite.  Even though that trip to southeastern Utah was one to remember, a little bit of my psyche ached during the several hours that I knew folks were grinding their way up Humble Hill, navigating Johnson Run, plowing down the Post Draft and approaching the final steep section known as the SOB.

Now, at last, it was my turn and I was pretty pumped to have another go at the Challenge.

My pal Jefferson, who was running the 25K, and I had tented at the Western Clinton Sportsmen's Association the night before which meant being able to sleep almost right up to race time, wake up, lace on shoes and walk a few hundred yards to the starting line.  The finish line sits on the WCSA property and our tent would be less than a football field away in case returning immediately to bed seemed like the ideal post-race option.

There were so many familiar, friendly faces waiting for the gun that it was almost hard to keep in mind that this was a "race", but eyeballing the couple of speedsters also gathered there, it was comforting somehow to know that the rest of us could actually just leave the racing to them.  Discovering that my children were there too, having spent the night before with my mother, stepfather, aunt and uncle at the cabin my uncle owns a few miles south of nearby Renovo, I really felt as though my "homecoming" was complete.

Eight o'clock arrived and off we went over the bridge that crosses the west branch of the Susquehanna River and then hung a sharp right, put a few hundred yards of pavement behind us and began working our way back along the north bank of the river on a narrow stretch of singletrack for a mile or two.  Laughter and chatter accompanied the tightly-clustered pack behind the leaders and as often happens the initial pace was brisk.

Humble Hill has a way of snuffing out brisk.  Rising steeply, immediately steeply, from just before mile 2, this climb takes you from 620 or so feet above sea level to right around 2,000 feet before you reach mile 4.  I'd brought collapsible Black Diamond Distance Z-Poles with me, something I've never used before during a race, and I was glad to have them.  While they didn't make me go any faster, they allowed me to take the "hunch" out of my back on ascents and by being able to stand more upright I could top out not nearly as fatigued as I suspect I would have without them.

Hell, I was still smiling as I neared the Hyner View vista that gives the park its name.

Photo courtesy of Peter Lopes

My family, having hopped in the car and taken the easy route to the summit, was waiting with smiles and heads shaking at how ludicrous it was that us bib-wearers had opted to trek there on foot.  After hugs all around, I got back to work.

Just beyond the aid station tables, a right-hand turn leads you back into the woods and onto singletrack that actually descends 1,000 feet in less distance than it was gained in the preceding miles.  It's a nice change but there's no shaking the fact that you are giving away nearly everything you just worked so hard to conquer.  Determined to keep my quads intact, I fell back quickly on the group that I'd stuck with on the initial climb.

The route levels out for a bit down in Reickert Hollow but the going is still challenging as miles 5-7 force you to cutback and forth across Johnson Run more times than I managed to count.  Back in 2010, I bagged the crossings and stayed in the creek to relieve the swelling that was building in my damaged arch and heel.  I gained some confidence this year in not having to seek the same solace.

Somewhere in the hollow, the 50K course splits away from the 25K course and begins another long and steep climb up the Sledgehammer.  I'd stashed my poles in my Gregory Tempo running pack after reaching Hyner View but quickly pulled them back out for this stretch.  An aid station was mercifully waiting at the top and I wolfed down PB & J's like they were a rarely-tasted delicacy.  The next mile-and-a-half was one of the few rolling-to-flat sections on the course, following one of the broad cleared-for-pipelines sections that lurk atop a staggering amount of northern Pennsylvania ridgelines.  It was easy running and a welcome reprieve following the effort already demanded and ahead of what was to come later in the day.

We hit another beautiful downhill that seemed to go on forever, switchbacking over and over again and it was in this section that I began feeling as though I just wasn't getting anywhere.  I wasn't particularly fatigued and the body was holding up nicely, but I just couldn't seem to move along at the pace that it seemed this stretch of the race would allow.  I was struggling to keep up with other runners even when the shared conversation was of interest and would've been great distraction.  Periodically, someone would pass me and every now and then I'd be caught from behind by two or three runners who seemed to be out for an afternoon jog.  I wanted to be THOSE guys.  Some days I am, but not today.

Not here at Hyner.

A low mental patch was threatening when I had a clear, liberating thought.  "You just aren't very good at this, are you?"  I'm not sure what brought on the question but I laughed aloud and immediately felt the blahs seep away.  The answer, of course, is/was "no, not really", but that's not what had brought me there in the first place.  My mind was back where it needed to be.

Moments later, I'd reached the bottom of the descent and turned left into the absolutely stunning Ritchie Run.  Aesthetically, this was my favorite part of the entire course.  The trail meandered its way from one side of the creek to the other and back again.  And again.  It was a really technical, wet uphill but I just marveled at how beautiful a place in the world it was and here was the first time that the "wilderness is a necessity" line began echoing in my consciousness.  I'm not sure I needed to be there, but I was so thankful that I was.

After leaving Ritchie Run behind, I auto piloted for a few miles and, frankly, don't recall many of the details.  I might have if the hospitality at the West Branch Nature Conservancy Camp aid station hadn't flushed everything from my short term memory, replacing it was carbonated beverages and hot, delicious soup.  Roughly twenty miles into the race at this point, I was craving sustenance, whether I knew it or not, and that soup was heaven sent.  As I think about it now, the glory of mid-race soup is a reoccurring theme for me at ultras.  Here's hoping that never changes and that the kind, selfless souls who have come to my rescue so many time either continue to be out there or have like counterparts on every long course I find myself.

The next few miles passed pleasantly as the little bit of climbing paled in comparison to what had come before and then we returned to the lollipop stick that had led away from the 25K course and were able to take the Sledgehammer down instead of up.  My quads still felt surprisingly good and I ran this section fairly well, actually passing a couple of runners and catching up to another.

I'm pretty sure I gave all of those positions right back after returning to where we'd left the 25K loop earlier in the day and having to creep up the narrow, messy, technical trail that climbs up along Johnson Run to the highest point on the 25K course.  The poles really shined in this section.  Again, they didn't actually haul me up the hill or quicken the pace but the balance and stabilization they provided my tiring legs was much appreciated.

At the top out, with the penultimate ascent out of the way, I made sure to drink a lot at the awaiting aid station.  I knew that I was about to hit another rocky, rooty downhill before tackling the final climb of the day and reaching the last aid station before the finish.  The Post Draft trail cuts downwards steeply along the side of a ridge and has tricky footing the entire way.  It had signaled the end for me two years ago and I was curious to find what it had to tell me now.

Mere moments after leaving the aid station, I was caught from behind by Robert Gusztaw who is headed to TransRockies (http://transrockies-run.com/) this summer with his wife, Janine.  Knowing I'd run the 6-day stage race last year, they'd introduced themselves briefly at the starting line.  It was nice to spend the Post Draft descent talking of the Rockies and I found myself excited anew for my August return to TRR.

Thanks to the conversation and the little psychological bump that came from catching 25K participants (they'd started an hour behind us that morning) from behind made this stretch go quickly and we continued to chat in the first portion of the climb out of Cleveland Hollow.  I couldn't help but notice the spot at which my Achilles had finally called it quits two years ago and while my mind stayed there for a minute or two, I fell behind a few steps and was again on my own.  There were quite a lot of 25K hikers on this climb and did my best to politely sneak past them without taking away from their experience or forcing them to step into inadvisable positions on the steep, narrow trail.

Practically on all fours, I scrambled the dreaded SOB at the top of the hill and stumbled on to the flat above, instantly struck by the gusting winds buffeting the volunteers staffing the final aid station nestled there.  The idea of them sitting there for hours in those conditions was humbling and I took a few moments to thank each and every one of them.

There was another mile or so of slight uphill that seemed like flat after the SOB and then the Spring Trail led straight down the mountain.  In two miles, the trail loses somewhere in the vicinity of 1,300 feet as it follows Huff Run toward the Susquehanna and I was thrilled to have quads enough to really power through it.  It was too little too late to make my overall time very impressive but I would rank that downhill in my own personal top 3 for both my performance and the fun that was had while doing it.  Didn't expect to feel that good after 28 miles at Hyner, but, man, I was glad I did.

I spent just about everything I had left there in Huff Run and found myself alternating between shuffling and walking back across the bridge before turning down the lane toward the WCSA.

Spirits were high at the finish line and it was awesome to be reunited with most of the friends who I'd started with or who had seen us off so many hours earlier.  Learning that my speedy friends, Jesse Johnson and Derek Schultz, had finished first and second with Jesse cracking 5 hours and establishing a pretty stout 4:55:19 course record.  The soon-to-be-ultra-running-household-name Ashley Moyer finished third overall, just 43 seconds behind Derek's 5:15:07 and nearly an hour ahead of the second-place female, Sheryl Wheeler.

My 7:29:12 put me right smack in the middle of the pack, a cozy position I've come to love that came without a trophy but secured the same finisher's medal as everyone else who made it the whole way 'round the mountain.

Most of the race participants departed a few hours later, but Jefferson and I again spent the night at the WCSA after driving back up for another, less taxing summit of the Hyner View vista.  Very early Sunday morning, I reluctantly snuck from the tent to relieve myself of some of the prior day's hydration.  The sky, free of ambient light pollution, was bursting with stars and whether from my emergence from the tent or something else entirely, a coyote's cry pierced the silence.  The call was answered by another and then two more in some sort of wild nocturnal responsorial that fell silent moments later, leaving only the distant sound of the waters of the Susquehanna seeking the Chesapeake Bay.  I remembered John Muir, grinned and returned to the tent, falling almost instantly back to sleep.

 I can't wait to go home to Hyner again next year.

axis mundi.

I've spent a good portion of the last few days shooting video for my place of work, Backcountry Edge.  These clips are basically short duration demonstrations of various tents, backpacks, sleeping bags and other outdoor gear or, as I prefer to think of it, filming these bits is a cross between playtime and learning, for me, and, eventually, for someone trying to get a more multi-dimensional view of a given item than a flat, lifeless product page on a retail website can provide.

It's fun, really, and serves as a nice physical escape from the office which is especially convenient when the weather decides to take a significant turn for the better, as it has this week.

But, this go round, the entire process has made me oddly restless.  Putting up a tent and expounding on its finer points has me wanting to be in that very tent somewhere a bit more exotic than a mile away from my desk.  Blowing up a sleeping pad, I find that I want to spend the entire night on the pad, preferably under a Western sky full of stars, stars, endless stars.  And the sleeping bags, the backpacks, the trekking poles, the you-go-ahead-and-name-its, they've all got me wanting to not just talk about their functional aspects but to put them to good and practical use somewhere far away from an all-too-handy and invasive cell signal.

All of which adds to my current longing for mountains and reminds me of a paragraph from Gretel Ehrlich's Questions of Heaven:

"Are mountains really mountains?  Are mountains a form of enlightenment?  Are rivers a mountain running?  Can we walk through them?  Why do mountains walk through us?"

I don't know the answers and, like all my favorite questions, they may not even have one or, at least, JUST one.  What fun is a question, anyway, if it's too easily answered?  Not as fun as one that isn't, this I know.

Today the mountains are walking through me and yet remain all too distant.  I miss them immensely.   I want to go to them.  To BE with them.  Not to race through them and head home, but to race to them and make them home.

I don't even need the gear.  Gear without the mountains is just trappings.  Mountains without the gear are still the connection points between earth and sky that pull me like so many magnets.

I'll get there...and when I do, I won't be back.

out of the darkness and all the secrets still exist.

Wanna know what I love most about ultra marathons?

The people, the places and the time spent with remarkable people in those spectacular places.  And those people and places combine to make every race worth looking back on in celebration whether you ran a PR, didn't run as fast as you thought you would, got injured or just plain didn't finish.

I love trail running.  Period.

I relish running alone and also love sharing the trail with a couple of close friends, but participating in organized events ensures that you cross paths instead of just follow paths.  You revisit friendships, establish new ones and share worthwhile fellowship even with those folks you never officially meet.

What do I like the least about ultra marathons?

I greatly dislike the fact that the pressure we apply on ourselves or that we allow to have applied upon us by others leads us to dissect our performances, feel the need to answer for our "failures" and potentially lose sight of what brought us out in the first place.  So wrapped up in push-on-through sloganeering is long-distance running that accomplishing anything less leaves us disappointed, defeated and defensive.

For several days following my decision to NOT go back out for another 50 miles after completing the first of two loops at the Antelope Island Buffalo Run, I tried to determine why I let fatigue and cold drown out my resolve to keep going.  I pondered the factors that made elusive a finish line that seemed on paper to be one, relatively speaking, easily reached.

Thankfully, what I like best came back to me.

I'll start with the place before moving on to the people.

Admit it, you've never heard of Antelope Island.  Until very recently, I hadn't or, if I had, it was a random assemblage of letters, just words, not a fixed position that I could identify on a map.

But it does exist, a 28,000-acre land mass, roughly 15 miles long and 7 miles wide resting out in the Great Salt Lake just west of Layton, Utah.  If you fly into the Salt Lake airport, you will see the island beneath your wings but you'll need to drive 40+ miles north to reach the narrow causeway that leads from the mainland onto Antelope Island.

It is a strikingly barren land, nearly devoid of vegetation higher than a couple of feet off of the ground.  There are rocks aplenty and a couple of peaks that climb a few thousand feet from the 4,200 feet of elevation at the shoreline.  Those peaks are dwarfed, however, by the stunning views of the snow-capped Wasatch Front standing guard to the East.  I marveled at the isolated pockets of weather that alternately dumped snow, hid the tops of peaks entirely and then rolled back to again reveal the jagged teeth that gate the far slopes that draw skiers from all over the world.

Seemingly endless swaths of hardy grasses are inhabited by 500 head of introduced bison and their neighbors include big horn sheep, pronghorn antelope and mule deer.  Fat rabbits are chased by equally well-fed coyotes.  Eagles, falcons, meadowlarks, chukars, ducks and other shore birds abound.  With few places to hide, all of this magnificent fauna is readily on display.

The wildlife, in its understated way, seems to appreciate the beauty of Antelope Island and I certainly did too.  I have never taken as many photographs during a race as I did at this one.  I'd shuffle along, stunned for minutes on end by the sweeping views before remembering that I had a camera and could make vain attempts to capture some of what I was seeing.  After snapping a few pics, I'd remind myself that I was "racing" and would zip the camera into its waterproof pouch and tuck it back into a vest pocket only to want to pull it immediately out again upon topping the crest of a rise or rounding another bend.

The wind pummeled the island all day (and all night) long, constantly reaffirming that it along with its ally, water, had shaped the landscape at which I gaped.   Nothing had ever nor would ever stand in its way, certainly not my outclassed jacket, and I never questioned that it reigned superior on the island regardless of what bureaucratic body claimed ownership.

If I were handed a piece of paper and told to draw the singletrack trails of my daydreams (AND if I possessed any ability to draw), those on Antelope Island may well have been what I'd have produced. While not carved naturally by the wind, the trails looked as though they'd always been there, that the land couldn't exist without them.  It could, of course, but the illusion was convincing.  There were rocks, here and there, to be wary of, but mostly it was rolling, forgiving terrain that felt so good underfoot you wished it would go on forever.

On the east side of the island where the land flattened out and hugged the shoreline, the long lines of sight made it feel as though the trails would, in fact, go on forever.  Even there, though, where it was mentally and physically challenging to endlessly turn the legs over and keep the mind from believing that no progress was being made, the land was still beautiful.  The lake rose with the wind and small swells lapped the edges of the island.  Here the Wasatch loomed most closely and their many contours revealed countless canyons across the water, silently emitting invitations for backcountry exploration.  The skies were boundless.

All was lovely.

As were the people spending the day on the island with me.

My dear friend Kelly Agnew had remained in sight during the initial miles of the day but had settled into the dogged pursuit and eventual successful securing of another 100-mile buckle and an impressive 9th place finish despite being far from full health.  I saw and even heard little of him after those first few hours but felt his presence throughout and cherished the opportunity to venture out the next morning to see him into the finish.

Shortly after the race began, I'd overheard a fellow runner, Jeremy Suwinski, dare to credit a nearby buffalo as having a better beard than mine.  He, sadly, was right, so, after a half-hearted defense, I settled into conversation that lasted for a few miles.  Discussing work situations provided reminder again of how blessed I am to have stumbled, blindly, into my position at Backcountry Edge, a position that had played no small role in my even being on the Antelope Island course in the first place.

On a switchback a few miles later, I came upon a woman and, just ahead of her, an older gentleman.  That man turned out to be 81-year old Grant Holdaway, the woman his daughter.  Grant was attempting to become the oldest individual to ever complete a 100-mile race.  He'd "retired" five years earlier, having finished a 100 at 76, but boredom, I suppose, had called his number and lured him from the sidelines back out onto the trail.  He, like me, only made it around the island once but if you dare say he ONLY went 50 miles, you need to learn a thing or two about perspective.

Another "old man", 45-year old Karl Meltzer did go 100 miles and he did so quickly.  His 14:34 finish shaved an hour off of the course record he already held and earned him his 35th 100-mile win.  Thirty five 100-mile wins?  Yep.  In case you're wondering, that is more wins, far more wins, than anyone else has ever notched at that distance.  It was a treat to get to see him do work and the memory of him completing the race at 2:30 AM to the muted applause of the then 5 or so fully-conscious people in the start/finish tent while I drowsed in the corner of the room is foggy but revered.

All day long, my beautiful wife, Lindsay, and her partner in crime, Jo Agnew, seemed to appear whenever I most needed someone to lift my spirits.  Despite the unshakable fatigue, I really didn't hit any desperate low points but their appearances were always a boost.  Possessing as big a heart as any I've ever known, nurse Lindsay was, not surprisingly, thrust into work at the start/finish line aid station, especially after I'd formally dropped down to the 50-mile distance and taken off of my shoes.  Despite not ever having attended a long-distance race and being without knowledge of the running vocabulary that most event participants assume everyone "speaks", Lindsay toiled throughout the night and was still caring for runners and their family members long after the sun came up on Saturday.  The sleepless hours of the night took their toll and Lindsay is sick as the proverbial dog at the moment but I sincerely doubt that she'd have approached her duties any differently if she'd have known how she'd end up.  Dynamo Jo juggled the job of crewing for Kelly with helping out at the aid station all night too.  Those two women were amazing and the fact that neither of them were originally slated to "man" that aid station makes me wonder what runners would've experienced there without them.  I'm glad no one found out.

I also got to spend some time catching up with Missy Berkel who I'd met at TransRockies last August and though she was having a tough day herself, slowed by a troublesome knee that was giving her fits in the cold, she soldiered on and scored a 50-mile finish for which she should hold her head up high.

The venerable Roch Horton masterfully ran the show at the Black Diamond-hosted Lower Frary aid station, serving up pierogies, hot chocolate and broth (bROCHth) that pulled me out of an initial bout of wicked chills and was almost alluring enough to coax me back out into the night for another visit.  Adam Cox, a Black Diamond employee volunteering at the aid station, even parted with a pair of tights to better equip me for the wind and cold that settled in after nightfall.  Even though I did finally succumb to the elements, I certainly wouldn't have made it 50 miles without all the help and encouragement I received at Lower Frary.

There were so many other great encounters and I'm sure I am forgetting many of them, but  I would be remiss if I failed to mention the dry humor and quiet everything-is-under-control demeanor of race director Jim Skaggs.  It was a treat to be able to meet him the day before the race and help unload provisions for a weekend of racing (there are also 50-mile, 50K and 25K versions of the race that kick off the day after the 100-mile race's Friday start).  His manner is the perfect balance of no-nonsense organization and empathetic runner himself.

The most amazing personal experience of the race came as I rounded the last turn to trudge up the short hill leading to the start/finish tent at which I already knew my night would end. Quintin Barney, a man I'd met earlier in the day and with whom I'd leapfrogged back and forth all day long, had just caught up with me again and had someone special waiting to escort him into the aid station.  His precious daughter, Kara, was beaming in the dark with a smile that I instantly recognized as the one her father had offered up to me repeatedly during the preceding hours, just as he did to every other person that he met along the way.  Having staggered in out of the night and more or less collapsed in one corner of the tent, I needed a moment or two to realize that Kara had come over to ask how I was doing and, turning my head to glance across the room, I saw Quintin looking my direction with genuine concern for my answer to Kara's question.  I was touched by the gesture and had no doubt of its sincerity.  The love the two of them had for each other was so apparent and my heart ached for my sleeping daughters back home in Pennsylvania. Oh, how I hope to have similar moments on the trail with Lily and Piper some day, but, most of all, I hope that we're as close with one another and comfortable with our love as Quintin and Kara obviously are whether our shared moments do or do not include trail running.

Trail runners are at their best, undoubtedly, while they're actually running trails.  Away from those trails, it's easy to digress to the holding up of trophies and baubles, telling tales of accomplishments, making proclamations of what we're running next, all of which starts to sound an awful lot like the posturing and positioning reminiscent of high school locker rooms, locker rooms populated by self-conscious boys sorely lacking the confidence they are trying desperately to convince you they possess.

Completing a course, I don't care how long and challenging it may be, is not coping with true tragedy.  Crossing the line is not salvaging a damaged but worth-fighting-for relationship.  Making the cutoff is by no means overcoming life-threatening illness.

And not continuing on to the end of the race is, frankly, just not as big a deal as we make it out to be.  Not in comparison to remembering the gift of a healthy body, the privilege of recreation, of movement and the pure joy of shared experience.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who shared those gifts, privileges and joy with me this past weekend.

I'm short a buckle, but it'll barely be missed among the memories.

thoughts thunk.

See beauty where others have tarnished it, taken it for granted or overlooked it entirely.

Familiar roads need not be entirely forsaken for those less traveled by.

Your eyes are always open.  Remember to listen now and then to what they have to say.

There IS a worthwhile "what" in blue blazes.

Don't be too impressed or disappointed by fleeting numbers.  They'll matter little tomorrow.

from here to new jersey.

Lily is quite the stickler for properly situating a bookmark before we cease our reading each evening.  If I forget this step and dare leave the book unmarked, she chastises me sternly.

Rightfully so, she wants to cover new ground when we settle in the following night.  There isn't time in her young life, I suppose, for backtracking.

Sooner or later, she's going to start cracking open my books and I'm afraid they're going to drive her crazy, as I fold down the corner of any and every page that contains a paragraph of interest, an eye-catching photo or even just a single stunning sentence.  For me, these marks aren't intended to denote stopping points from which to begin again, but, rather, as places to which I'd like to return and linger.

Having put Lil to bed the other evening after receiving yet another scolding (I'm forgetful, you see), I revisited my own shelves and pulled down a few random books to see what I'd find.  Pressed leaves tumbled off of or clung courageously to many pages, revealing another obsession for which I'll likely have to explain myself once the girls start greater exploration into my library.  A couple of stray feathers hid there too and I resolved to make certain that Lily and Piper both got a peek at these artifacts before they are damaged or lost entirely.

On some pages I couldn't determine exactly what it was that had led to the original folding of the corner, but even this was a warm reminder of why revisiting beloved books with the always changing perspective of "real" life brings rekindled appreciation and new revelations.

I'd read From Here to Eternity by James Jones years and years ago, so long ago, in fact, I was somewhat surprised to find that I'd done anything more than store pretty leaves within its pages.  I do not remember much about the book, sadly, but a 20-something me had found reason to call out a specific passage that has taken on new meaning with the tests of ultra running.  The following words were especially timely from the vantage point of my experiences at this past weekend's Febapple Frozen 50, a 50-mile race that I was blessed to complete despite the fact that more than half of the starters failed to finish due to treacherous footing and hypothermia-inducing weather conditions:

“He knew how to handle pain. You had to lie down with pain, not draw back away from it. You let yourself sort of move around the outside edge of pain like with cold water until you finally got up your nerve to take yourself in hand. Then you took a deep breath and dove in and let yourself sink down it clear to the bottom. And after you had been down inside pain a while you found that like with cold water it was not nearly as cold as you had thought it was when your muscles were cringing themselves away from the outside edge of it as you moved around it trying to get up your nerve. He knew pain.”

My interests all prove wedded in the end.  The music that speaks to me, the words that move me, the movement that sings to me all overlap and intertwine until I can't distinguish one from the other.  And I adore that.

I think little of graves or tombstones.  Infrequently do I ponder how I'd like to be remembered.  But, should my family decide it imperative that a marker be erected in my memory upon my slipping from this earth, I think I could live (ha!) with

"He knew how to handle pain."

Better yet, save the real estate and whatever materials were to be used for the marker and fold a corner or two in my honor when something strikes you as worthy of a return visit.